


Don't Talk the Talk

by MadameFolie



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Poor Taste in Hashtags, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9861932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: ....if you can't walk the walk. And don't make your victory hashtag '#kissmyass' if you're not prepared to make good on it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Beijing Winter Olympics, boys. Everyone’s of age, and the Olympic Village --as Olympic Villages so often are-- is out of condoms _again_.

 

 

 

"' _#kissmyass'_." Otabek looks up from his phone at the end of the bed, unreadable as ever. "That's how you're commemorating your first Olympic gold medal online?" Yuri gives his arm a shove with his foot. (He doesn't have a whole lot of space to work with. The village beds fit a half a person each and they're pushing it loading on two. Plus, his feet are pretty beat up, so it's more of a scuffle of attrition.) It's like Otabek doesn't even understand this whole personal branding thing.

 

"What, you want me to cry and blubber about making my country proud?" He shoves Otabek again; Otabek grabs his foot. Jerk. "Please, there's enough of those making the rounds." There's a moment of quiet while Otabek chews this over. Then again, Almaty'd only lost out on hosting by four votes, if Yuri remembers correctly. The missed chance to represent his home on his own turf, that's got to be eating at Otabek every step of the way.

 

"I guess," he ultimately admits, because, duh, of course he's right. And he touches his lips to Yuri's ankle because he knows it. Probably.

 

"They're out of condoms again," Yuri warns him, feeling a little outside his own skin. Okabek snorts out a short puff of air through his nose.

 

"Hm." He narrows his eyes at something beyond Yuri's foot. "I guess."

 

Whether or not he read it right, it lands him on his stomach with his pants stripped off, Otabek spreading him open with his hands. The only sound is his own uneven breathing as Otabek traces the arc of his spine, the curve of his hip, the give of the muscle in his thighs -- still sore from a few days ago.

 

"It's not a fucking Picasso," Yuri spits. It's cold and he's hard and he hates waiting. Otabek makes that noise again, that thing that constitutes one of his fond laughs. He presses his thumb into the flesh of Yuri's rear.

 

"There's an eye right here." His idea of a joke. Some sense of taste, this guy. God, he wants that mouth on him.

 

"You're going to kill my hard-on."

 

"Oops." Something warm brushes the small of his back. "Better fix that."

 

"Get on with it," Yuri tells him -- and once the teeth sink into his skin all higher thought goes right out the window. Yet for all the weird shit that comes out of Otabek's mouth, what a mouth it is. He always knows where to touch him, how much tongue to give him and how much tooth. He scrapes at the edge of a bruise left by a fall during practice. Heh. Landed it when he had to, though.

 

"Little more." Otabek guides his legs further apart, bringing him down against the bedding. His cock brushes the shitty, scratchy fabric. Fuck. He rolls into the contact, he'll take any friction he can get. All Otabek's giving him is softness, with his tongue lapping tight whorls on his skin. The air's chilly on what's left behind in his wake and Yuri shudders.

 

Then comes the kiss.

 

Otabek's lips are still slick from where he's been tonguing away when he lays them right between his hands. But he's warm and presses his lips to Yuri with something like reverence. Yuri curses.

 

"I didn't mean it literally," he breathes. Otabek pulls away only far enough to speak.

 

"How about it?" It's. Not a bad idea, actually.

 

"Okay," he finds himself saying, with that strange tingling sensation in his nerves that he gets every time Otabek takes him somewhere new. Like a vantage point in Barcelona, or the sea or an outstretched hand. Full of surprises at every turn, isn't he.

 

Otabek curls his tongue against him, pressing up against where his body gives. His fingers have always been steady inside him. This is...Otabek's tongue is soft and deft, and he pushes into Yuri like there's nothing standing between them, not skin or bone or the resistance of their own bodies. Yuri yields. And it's fucking perfect.

 

Otabek tongues at the lip of him. He bores him open. Yuri hears him moan and can't bring himself to care that he hasn't so much as touched his cock. Otabek caresses one blistered ankle with a hand and Yuri just.

 

Comes. Hard.

 

"Shit," he growls, before the aftershocks even fade away. That was, what. One minute? Two? Humiliating, whichever. Anyone else and he'd never live it down. Otabek, though. Otabek hums against his skin and treats him to one more kiss before sitting back. He's stroking Yuri's calf in erratic staccato -- yeah, completely satisfied with himself.

 

"Kiss, delivered."

 

"Yeah, yeah, nice job. Good boy." Wow. Yuri turns his head over his shoulder to see Otabek wiping saliva from the corner of his mouth with a thumb. God, he's going to be hard again in a hot second like this. "Tell you what," he says. "You get down here and fuck me until I can't sit and we'll call it even, okay?"

 

"Oh? We're not even?"

 

Yuri glances between his legs. Well. How about that. Otabek's got a wet spot on the front of his shorts, dark against the solid blue and probably reeking of arousal. Or, no-- that's not it, he realizes. God damn.

 

"Awfully smug for a guy who just came in his pants."

 

"Yeah," Otabek says, and Yuri still can't tell whether or not he's being sarcastic.

 

That's probably why he loves him so much.

 


End file.
